


Writing Exercises

by g_a_y



Category: Original Work
Genre: AC/DC References, Prompt Fill, Swearing, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_a_y/pseuds/g_a_y
Summary: Random writing tasks and exercises, in the hopes of getting me back into it so I can finally complete something.1. Maze Runner lines2. Write a story told to you





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 minutes, 524 words.  
> Using the first sentence of page 56, and the first sentence of the first page, as the first and last sentences (Maze Runner).

Thomas’s mind was spinning. Last he remembered the cruise had taken a turn for the worst. What was supposed to be a fun, relaxing retreat turned into something worse in the span of around ten- no, five- minutes. The assassination attempt wasn’t even the worst part. 

(How did he end up on a cruise with a fucking mayor, to begin with?)

No, the worst part, was that Thomas was afraid of boats. He’d figured a cruise would be fine. It was just a giant hotel but floating. No boat-like at all when you get on it. Oh, how wrong he’d been. It was a boat. A gigantic fucking boat, floating into the middle of buttfuck nowhere. And now, it was part of a- what, a heist? A ploy? Thomas had no fucking clue what this counted as. He was a barista, not a lawyer, and he’d won this stupid place on this stupid dumb cruise from sheer luck after entering one of the competitions that _no one wins_ from the newspaper.

Maybe he hoped he’d get over his fear of boats. That could be it, right? Not that it mattered now, with his holiday (did it really count as a holiday if he was terrified out of his mind the entire time?) being hijacked by a group of criminals with big-ass guns and a weird thing against a small-town mayor. 

Thomas was the only one who kicked up a fuss. It was the phobia that made him brave. Which, as it happened, against a group of criminals with big-ass guns and a weird thing against a small-town mayor, was not the best life-choice he’d ever made. Faced with guns – literally, guns in his face – Thomas decided it was oh-so-not fair that they’d be made to stay aboard the god-forsaken ship when they were supposed to dock three days ago. 

It did not, as it turned out, end up with him being shot in the face. No, it was something much, much worse. Aboard a ship, he was sent to said ship’s prison. That is to say, he was sent to the brig.

The fucking brig. Of a ship. Floating in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. For god knows how long. Locked in the brig. Tiny, metal room. Probably hadn’t been cleaned in eight-billion years, or however old the boat was. No seats, no heating, no windows or fresh air or food or water and he was stuck on a ship in the middle of fucking nowhere with a gang of criminals with big-ass guns with a thing against a mayor and he was stuck, locked, in the brig. Of the ship. A cruise ship. A boat. 

Because fuck him, right? Who knew how long he’d be stuck down there, stewing in his thoughts? They’d probably forgotten about him already, the evil bastards. He’d die in there, all alone on a fucking stupid-ass boat. His entire life would be here, now, right? Whatever was left of it, if the stupid boat fucker didn’t sink already like he expected it to. 

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 15 minutes, 482 words.  
> Write a story told to you. That time my mum met AC/DC's lead singer - exaggerated for dramatic effect, of course.

The bar was dim and musty, smoke low and covering the beaten, wooden floor. Lights flickered on the wall, music blaring bass from old speakers, barely managing to stay alive. It was a small bar. A hole-in-the-wall, undiscovered place which played live music every Saturday and had a ring of old regulars; local folk with wrinkled, leather skin and stories to tell.

One of the regulars, however, had bright and young skin, with glowing eyes and silky hair. A thin figure, wrapped in tight black lycra, barely fitting, and knee-high boots with heels so tall they should have crippled her. Leaning against the bar, the woman flicked her hair over her shoulder, glancing at the newcomer sitting beside her. He wore a smug smile, eyeing her in a way that made her skin crawl with goosebumps and jitters. The pint glass in her hand lifted to her lips, and she waited for her friend to arrive, now with eyes in the side of her skull.

The stranger was not particularly old, but neither was he old – either way, he was far too mature-looking for the arrogant glint in his eyes. 

“I’m in a band, you know.” His voice came out of nowhere after he’d ordered; a conversation that she neither wanted to be involved with nor cared for. Still, she was waiting for someone, and she couldn’t cancel now. Not after getting all dressed up. This was always their meeting spot. 

“I care why?” She responded, rolling her eyes at the man. He seemed familiar, but everyone around here looked the same. 

“Maybe you’ve heard of us.”

The next five minutes came with bragging and a superiority complex, as the man conceitedly droned on about how famous he was, how many hits he had, how big the crowds he played for were. 

She knew where she’d seen him before. It was Brian Johnson, lead singer for AC/DC. Because of course he was. As the singer of one of her favourite bands, however, he was… distasteful at best. Truly, not selling himself. But she let him brag, and moan, and talk. As they said, never meet your heroes. They all turn out to be monsters. Turns out, it was true.

“Don’t you think we’re great, love? You look the type.”

With a wry smirk and an annoyed look towards the door, the young woman stood from her bar stool. Tilting her head, her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she caught the musician’s gaze following. 

“No, actually. I think you’re shit.” Her voice was dry and thoroughly unconvinced of his so-called greatness. The look of utter shock and disbelief on the lead singer of her favourite band’s face was well worth it, in her opinion, and she turned. Strolling out of the joint as if she owned the place, with her hips swaying and heels clicking on the hard, wooden floor.


End file.
